


TKO

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Blood, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Bruises, Consensual Violence, First Time, Impact Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for and posted at the <a href="http://pintokinkmeme.livejournal.com/925.html">Pinto Kink Meme</a>, for this prompt: </p><p> <i>"The new personal trainer for the third reboot film recommends that Chris and Zach take up boxing as part of their getting-in-shape preparations, So they box. Each other. A lot. Zach usually wins, but they're both super into it, and there's lots of smoldering tension as they slowly realize what's really going on and why they can't get enough of Zach beating up Chris...blah blah blah all the hot D/s sex.</i></p><p>
  <i>Note: I know nothing about boxing, so feel free to take liberties in your pursuit of impact play hotness!" </i>
</p><p> Pretty much what it says on the tin!</p>
            </blockquote>





	TKO

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WintryMix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintryMix/gifts).



“Boxing?” 

“Boxing!” Their trainer, Josh, looks way too excited by the prospect, but Zach figures every day must feel like New Year’s Eve when your body looks like his does. 

Zach squints from Josh to Chris and back again. “Like, with Chris? Together?” 

Josh nods and turns away to dig in his pile of equipment for what Zach assumes are boxing implements of some kind. “Sure, why not? Both of you have fight scenes in this, so you might as well learn together, right?” he says over his shoulder. 

Zach gives Chris a side-eye, exaggerated since Josh isn’t looking at them. Chris returns it, grimacing in the universal gesture for “I have no clue what this guy’s on about.” 

Zach did some boxing last time around, and it was a hell of a workout, but he never actually progressed to sparring with anyone unless you counted a trainer wearing pads and not fighting back, when they were practicing for Spock’s big fight with Khan. And there was his slow-mo grappling with Benedict, but that definitely doesn’t count. 

Josh turns around and tosses them each a roll of tape. He sets out a pair of gloves each and turns around, surveying his charges like they’re all about to embark on an exciting and painful adventure. “I think you guys are going to be naturals,” he says. 

Chris frowns, and Zach swallows. This definitely has the potential to be an unmitigated disaster. He’s kind of excited. 

They start out with punching bags. 

Well, before the punching bags they get a long lecture about safety, which Zach mentally translates as “Paramount sunk a lot of cash into your pretty faces, so don’t fuck ‘em up too badly.” They’ve got a whole mess of padding and protective gear to wear: the tape, which Josh shows them how to wrap tightly around their fingers. The gloves, lighter weight for the bags and heavier for sparring, when they get there. Mouthguards and headgear, which they both look ridiculous in and which they thankfully don’t need to wear unless they’re actually fighting each other. 

Day one is Zach and Chris versus the punching bags, which they dub Simon Pegg and JJ, because JJ’s a traitor and Simon will be oddly flattered when and if he finds out that they’re wailing on his namesake. They wrap their hands up first, Zach watching as Chris loops the loop at the end of the roll of tape around his thumb and then goes to work on the rest of his hand. Chris has huge hands, which Zach’s not sure he ever really noticed before. There’s something about them all taped up and ready for action--Zach’s not really used to seeing Chris look so...well...butch. He’s a little sorry to see Chris’s hands disappear into the gloves for their first go round with the bags. He hurries to wrap his own hands and glove up himself, then joins Chris next to the bag setup where Josh is waiting to put them through their paces. As he teaches them stance and technique, Zach can’t help but watch Chris out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing a battered blue baseball cap and still sporting copious salt-and-pepper facial hair. Zach knows he’s kind of bummed out about having to shave when they start shooting, and he’s caught Chris babying his beard, stroking it in the mirror when he thinks nobody’s looking and combing it with some fancy beard oil he ordered from an “apothecary” in Oregon. 

“Have you been drinking?” Zach hisses once, on the way to a table read. 

“I think it’s my beard oil,” Chris replies, sounding way too proud of himself. “It smells like whiskey.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Zach mutters. But he ends up weaseling the name out of Chris eventually, and buys him an extra bottle as a “stocking stuffer” despite the fact that Christmas is a month away, because the beard oil actually smells nice and because over the years Zach has become painfully aware that he’s got a soft spot the size of Texas where Chris is concerned. 

Which is why the whole boxing thing is, in general, super weird. 

“I don’t know if I can do it, man,” Chris says, the day they’re supposed to try sparring for the first time. “I don’t know if I can take a swing at you.” 

“Why not? You did it for the first movie.” 

“Yeah, but that was in character, and it was mostly you kicking my ass.” 

“Oh, Pine,” Zach drawls. “I’m going to kick your ass all over this gym today too.” 

“Hmmph,” Chris says, but some of the hurt-puppy look goes out of his face, and he goes over to the bags to start his warmup without saying anything else. 

Despite his posturing, when Zach is actually geared up and standing across from Chris he feels more than a little trepidation. They’re wearing their headgear and mouthguards, and Chris’s makes his face look distorted and strange. The way Chris is looking at him, Zach’s pretty sure his has the same effect. Zach’s played a lot of scary roles, obviously, and he wonders if some of the vibe he seems to unconsciously lend to them is coming through to Chris now. He’s always been curious about it, that dualism that he seems to be able to access without even thinking about it. Maybe he’ll ask Chris later. 

“Okay,” says Josh from the sidelines. “We’re just going to go for three minutes here to start. I want you to both really focus on technique and footwork. Sound good?” 

They both nod, neither willing to look away right now. There’s a hardness to Chris’s face, Zach thinks. He’s never seen it before. But then Josh blows his whistle and Zach has other things to think about. 

Neither of them is that great, but Zach lands more shots than Chris does right out of the gate. He’s faster, whipping a gloved fist out at Chris and then pulling back to block him. They’re both fighting gingerly, and the heaviest blow Zach lands is on the meat of Chris’s bicep, right before Josh calls time. Zach drops his hands, and for the first time he realizes how heavily he’s breathing. Chris is too, his t-shirt drenched, from the warmup and three minutes of sparring. And nerves, maybe. 

“You guys want to go again?” 

Zach shrugs at Chris, who nods. He gestures over at his water bottle--it’s hard to speak with the mouthguards--and goes over to squirt Gatorade in his mouth. Zach does the same, and then they’re back at it, facing each other down. 

Zach finds himself wishing he were better; he’s always been a bit of a perfectionist, and he feels uncomfortable in the novice phase of any new skill. Chris being right there with him helps, though some of the technique videos he’s been watching don’t recommend sparring with an inexperienced partner. But Josh is here, directing traffic as it were. They go for a little longer this time, Josh stopping them intermittently to correct their form, and this time Chris does a little better at blocking Zach and also lands an unexpected uppercut to the underside of Zach’s jaw. 

When it happens...well, it’s a gamechanger. Zach doesn’t consider himself a violent person, not at all. Minus a few skirmishes in middle school, one of which was mortifyingly broken up by Joe, he’s managed to steer clear of fights. And this isn’t fighting, not really; it’s exercise, it’s coordinated movement, like the physicality of acting, like dance. But when Chris lands that punch, for a split second, Zach sees red. He forgets where he is, he forgets who he’s not-fighting. The impact triggers something deep in Zach’s lizard brain, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to connect fist to flesh. He comes back at Chris hard, and gets in a punch to the side of Chris’s head, right over the ear guard. 

“Whoa,” Josh exclaims. “Nice moves, guys.” He blows his whistle. “All right, I think that’s enough for today,” he says. “See you back on Wednesday, yeah?” 

He stands around a little awkwardly for a minute, because Zach and Chris don’t answer, just stand there staring and panting. Eventually, he walks off in the direction of the gym office, leaving them to head to the locker room. Chris struggles out of his gloves and spits his mouth guard into his hand.

“Can we practice in between sessions?” he calls after Josh. 

“Don’t see why not,” Josh replies. “Just as long as you keep things under control.”  
Zach takes off his own gear, taking out the mouthguard and running a still-taped hand across his sweat-soaked brow. “Damn, I’d forgotten what a good workout this is,” he says. “Have you been sore from working with the bags?” 

Chris doesn’t answer. Zach looks up to find him crouched down next to his discarded gloves, staring at the sweat dripping off his head and onto the floor. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Zach asks, kneeling next to him and peering up into his face. “Chris? Is your head okay? Here, let me--” He tries to touch Chris’s head, but he jerks away. 

“I’m fine,” Chris says, quickly. “Things just got kind of...confusing there for a second.” He looks up at Zach, brow furrowed. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Zach says. He reaches out carefully, taking hold of Chris’s hand and beginning to unwind the strips of tape. “You got these tight,” he mutters. “Be careful; you don’t want to cut off your circulation.” Without thinking, he finds himself rubbing at Chris’s slightly reddened knuckles. Chris gives Zach a curious, cloaked look and takes his hand back. He takes the tape off his other hand himself. 

“So, hey,” Zach says as they’re walking to the lockers. “How about this. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll take you out for an apology beer.” 

“I’m the one who hit you,” Chris says, still sounding slightly bewildered. 

“I hit you back, though,” Zach says. Chris just seems a little unmoored at the moment, and something--that soft spot, probably--is making Zach want to fix it. 

“I guess,” Chris says. He sounds like he wants to argue the point, but after they’re cleaned and dressed he lets Zach take him out for a beer and seems mostly normal, so Zach decides not to worry too much about it. As they’re going their separate ways, Chris claps Zach on the shoulder. 

“Thanks for doing this with me,” he says. 

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I?” 

“I don’t know,” says Chris, face a little flushed. “We could’ve just gone to a boxing gym or something.” 

“Sure, but...I don’t know, I like doing it with you.” There’s an undercurrent of _something_ here; Zach can feel it just as surely as he could feel whatever was troubling Chris back at the gym. His stomach flip flops once, then again when Chris smiles at him, the full crinkle-eyed package. Which would disarm anyone, really, so it’s not like Zach should give it too much thought, right? 

“So do I,” Chris says. “Hey, you wanna meet up and train tomorrow? Josh said it was cool if we did.” 

Zach can already feel the muscle soreness creeping in, and he wants nothing more than to take a long, hot shower and collapse into bed. He can’t even begin to think about working out again, but the way Chris is looking at him...his huge grin has faded down to this kind of sunset-y glow, and it’s clearly scrambling Zach’s brain because he agrees to meet Chris the following day. 

“We can just go over the footwork or something,” he says. 

“Yeah,” says Chris. “Just, like, technique and stuff.” 

They meet the next day, and the day after that. They have formal sessions with Josh twice a week, and eventually it becomes funny to Zach that he thought the boxing thing was just going to be a supplement to the rest of his workout routine, because pretty quickly it becomes clear that it _is_ his workout routine. He’s not sure why they both fall upon it so readily--both of them are at loose ends, not filming _Trek_ yet but too close to it sign on for anything else. Zach’s working on a few projects for Before the Door, but nothing too involved, since he’s about to have a full plate once he officially goes into Spock mode. 

And Chris--Zach’s not really sure what Chris is doing. He says he’s writing these days, working on a screenplay, and seems to spend most of his time outside the gym holed up in is office at home or at a coffee shop, hat and glasses in full effect. But as _Trek_ buzz ramps up, Zach suspects he’s keeping to himself more and more often. Chris doesn’t do well with confinement, especially when he thinks it’s at the hands of the paps. More than once, it occurs to Zach that maybe he should be worried, but Chris seems mostly fine. Every so often Zach will notice something--a snappishness, an edge. When they’re working out, though, it seems to disappear, like the sweat and movement and occasional pain are breaking Chris out of some kind of shell that he slowly rebuilds in the hours between sessions. 

They’re both getting better. Zach still manages to best Chris most of the time, but despite their general competitive vibe Chris doesn’t seem to mind, which Zach frankly finds surprising. But he takes his lumps, literally, and just kind of grinds his teeth and gets back into it. It’s strangely intimate, fighting like this. Sometimes they’ll end up locked together, holding one another at arms-length, breathing hard and sweating on each other until someone calls a halt, and in those moments Zach finds himself forgetting whether or not they’re embracing. 

One day, Zach lands a particularly hard hit to Chris’s stomach, just below his ribcage. Chris’s abs are flexed, braced for it, and when Zach’s fist strikes home the impact jars him straight to his core, like a tiny earthquake rippling up through the glove and along Zach’s arm to shake him at what feels like his very heart. It takes Zach’s breath away, and seeing Chris react to it--clutch his belly and double over, breathing hard--makes Zach feel a bizarre and heady cocktail of power, chased instantly by regret. 

He abandons the fight, of course, running over to Chris and helping him up as best he can with the unwieldy gloves on. “Chris? Are you all right?”

Chris is gasping, the hit obviously having knocked the breath from his lungs. He doesn’t answer Zach right away, just looks up slowly and meets his eyes, and the look on his face is one Zach’s never seen before. Chris’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated. He looks awed and high and...turned on. 

“Yeah,” he says, breathlessly, smiling. “I’m fine.” 

Zach, however, doesn’t feel fine. He imagines he can still hear the dull thud of his glove colliding with Chris’s gut, feel the way the hard flesh yielded, the way Chris folded around Zach’s fist. Adrenaline courses through him, making him feel a little sick. When he realizes he’s got a semi, mercifully concealed in the baggy shorts he’s wearing today, he can’t deal anymore. 

He takes the gloves off as fast as he can undo the velcro, tossing them aside and taking off his headgear on the way to the locker room, shoving the door open so hard it swings back through the frame in his wake and strikes the outside wall. Zach bangs into the nearest bathroom stall and barely gets his mouthguard out before he’s heaving into the toilet. He doesn’t like to eat before their training sessions, so his gagging yields mostly orange Gatorade-- _never again_ , he thinks--and, at the end, a yellowy, putrid mouthful of stomach acid. He hasn’t puked this hard in years, not since an especially wicked hangover that is the chief reason he no longer drinks tequila. He flops next to the toilet, leaning his head against the wall of the stall. He’s sweating again, a cold disgusting sweat. 

“Ugh,” he says. He hears someone else come into the bathroom, and he closes his eyes. 

“Zach?” 

“Go away, Chris,” Zach says. 

“What’s wrong? You bombed out of there like...like I don’t even know what.” 

“It’s nothing,” Zach says, wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet paper. “I just felt a little nauseous, that’s all. I should be better about eating breakfast.” 

“Are you sure? You wanna go get some food? Or I can drive you home if you want.” 

“It’s cool,” Zach says. “Just go shower.” 

“I’ll wait for you,” Chris says. “We can--” 

“I can get home by myself.” 

Zach thinks he can hear Chris sigh. “Oh,” Chris says. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you later, then.” 

Zach hides in the bathroom stall until he hears the shower turn on, then he comes out and grabs his stuff as quietly as he can. When he gets home, he drags himself into a shower of his own, running the water as hot as he can stand and letting it run over him for a really long time. He tries not to, but he can’t stop thinking about the look on Chris’s face, the feel of Zach’s body connecting with Chris’s as powerfully as it would if they were--

 _Stop,_ Zach thinks to himself. _Just stop right there. That’s off limits._

Which is nothing new. Zach has kept Chris firmly on one side of a very clear line dating almost all the way back to the very beginning of their relationship. And it’s not like he hasn’t been in intimate situations with Chris before; they’ve achieved work husband status on not one but two films and press tours, they’ve shared any number of drunken nights on the town, crushing themselves together in the backseats of cars and on couches in the glow of late night TV. Zach’s brought Chris water and aspirin at the end of many of those late nights, and vice versa, and if either of them had hair long enough to hold back that probably would’ve happened at some point too. But none of that has been quite like this. None of that involves sweating and grunting and gasping and _touching_ like this, even if the touching is a little...violent. 

_It’s like sex,_ Zach thinks. _Somewhere in my subconscious mind, it all got mixed up. That’s the only reason I got hard for it today._

If he drinks enough beer with dinner to blunt his judgement just slightly, and if he subsequently jacks off before bed to the image of his bare fist connecting with Chris’s torso, Chris’s mouth forming a perfect O of pained surprise...well, that probably doesn’t mean anything at all. 

The next day, Zach sends Chris a text begging off their workout. _I think I’ve got a bug. Don’t wanna get you sick._

_Sure_ , Chris replies, and Zach attempts not to read too much into the blandness of that single word. He’s the one being a dick and weaseling out of their plans, after all. 

Zach figures it’ll be fine. He’ll take a few days off, let the soreness in his muscles fade and with it the memory of that look on Chris’s face. He’ll eat badly, lounge around when he should be at the gym, maybe do some yoga. Unfortunately, Zach’s body and mind seem to be conspiring against him. He misses training with Chris, misses the physical release of sparring and the boneless, satisfying exhaustion afterwards. He has a hard time falling asleep at night and feels cranky and out of sorts during the day. He tries running, his old standby, and it helps a little but it isn’t the same. Finally, three days in, Zach breaks and texts Chris. _Feeling better_ , he says. _Regular time tomorrow?_

He stares at his phone embarrassingly until Chris responds: _Sounds good._

***

Zach’s determined to stay on top of things when he goes back to the gym, but then in typical Chris fashion he throws a curveball. Zach’s running a little late, and when he gets to the gym Chris is already suited up and warming up on the bags. He’s wearing gloves, but no headgear, and he looks way too hot without the ameliorating effect of the helmet and mouthguard making him look suitably goofy.

“Where’s your stuff?” Zach says, gesturing at Chris’s head.

“Don’t freak out,” Chris says, “But I thought maybe we could try without it.” 

Zach crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “You heard that lecture Josh gave us; what if we fuck up and one of us loses a tooth or something? We start shooting in less than two weeks; Orci’ll have our heads.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Chris says. “The pros do it.” 

“The pros also bite each other’s ears off sometimes.” 

“Nobody’s biting anything off. Come on, fighting you with all that stuff on is freaky. It’s like it’s not really you, you know?” 

Zach sighs. _I think that’s the point_ , he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Chris is already flushed and sweaty from his warmup. A bead of perspiration wells in the divot of his upper lip, and Zach is totally screwed. 

“Fine,” he says. “But I swear to god, if something happens and we fuck each other up we have to mutually agree not to sue.” 

“Done. Besides, if I get a cool scar maybe it’ll help me get something fucking interesting for a change.” 

Zach starts taping his hands. “Oh my god, Pine, you are a danger to yourself and others.” 

Chris is right; taking the headgear off makes a big difference. Zach isn’t sure he likes it. Strike that--he knows he likes it, he’s just pretty sure that it’s a really bad idea, given the connections his brain’s already managed to make even without Chris looking as good as he does now, all intense and focused. 

“You ready?” Zach says. 

Chris nods. “Bring it, Quinto.” 

Zach tries to push aside his concerns and let himself get lost in the movement and exertion the way he used to. It works, up to a point. He and Chris circle each other, feinting this way and that, Chris raining a couple of blows down on Zach’s forearms as Zach blocks his face. Zach dodges sideways, connecting with Chris’s stomach close to the place he hit the other day. He sees Chris wince briefly, but it punch doesn’t land as solidly and doesn’t bring him down like it did before. Zach feels it, though, that powerful feeling. The look that crosses Chris’s face; the feeling of the impact as they smash together. Zach realizes belatedly that he’s smiling. 

They continue on, weaving around each other on the floor. Chris is looking at Zach, but not at his face; by now they’ve both learned to read one another’s movements, to guess at where the other will move next maybe even before his conscious mind knows itself. 

Chris tries a jab that Zach blocks handily and then they’re blocking each other again, gridlocked like two stags fighting, braced against each other’s arms. Zach’s forearm slides against Chris’s, slippery skin to slippery skin, the drag of his hair a little painful. It distracts him, giving Chris just enough leeway to get in a right hook to the side of Zach’s face that leaves him reeling. He bends at the waist and tries to breathe, waiting for the stars to fade. That’s something Zach never realized before they started doing this: when someone socks you in the face, you literally see stars. The inside of his mouth hurts; the mouthguards are supposed to keep you from cutting yourself on your teeth, but they aren’t wearing mouthguards. 

“You good?” Chris huffs. What he really means is, _are you out?_

Zach growls in response, his eyes on Chris’s feet. Chris is distracted just like Zach was a minute ago, and it’s kind of a dirty move but Zach doesn’t care. Without even looking, he drives up into Chris’s face, smashing his gloved fist into the side of his mouth. Chris immediately goes down, crying out in shock as he does so. After a minute, he rips off his gloves to cup his face. Zach’s awash in adrenaline, and he just stands there watching Chris and coming down, disappointed that it’s over. Chris looks up at him. He’s cut; there’s a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth and blood dabbed on his fingertips. He holds Zach’s gaze as his tongue darts out to lick at it and draw red over the swollen pink of his lower lip. He looks obscene. He looks _beautiful._

Zach’s mouth drops open of its own accord. “Oh,” he says reverently. 

“I knew it,” Chris whispers. “I knew you were into it like I am.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zach snaps. 

Chris gets up, moving his jaw as he does like he’s testing it. He steps close to Zach, looking down at the tented fabric of his gym shorts so pointedly he might as well be clutching at Zach’s rock-hard dick with his hand. 

“Bullshit,” Chris says. 

He grabs Zach’s wrist with one hand and rips at the velcro of his glove with the other, dropping the glove to the floor next to them. He follows suit with Zach’s second glove, and when Zach’s hands are free Chris tightens his grip and drags Zach off in the direction of the lockers. The gym’s a private space; Josh is up in the front office and the room they spar in is unoccupied except for them. Part of Zach’s brain is still playing dumb as to why Chris is taking him somewhere even more private, but the rest is busy putting together puzzle pieces--Chris’s face the other day, his statement a minute ago, the bulge in his own shorts. 

In the locker room, Chris doesn’t waste any time. He lets go of Zach just long enough to rip off his shirt. Then he turns to face Zach, pointing at a massive bruise on his torso. It’s a sickening purple in the center, yellowing out on the edges already. It looks horrifying and lovely at the same time, like Chris’s bloody mouth. Zach can’t stop staring at it. 

Chris grabs Zach’s still-taped hand and guides it to his skin, over the bruise. Zach flinches. He wants to jerk his hand away, but the compulsion to touch is too great. He brushes Chris gently with his fingers, feather-light, like he’s tracing the lines of a map. Chris moans, touching the edges of the bruise himself. He looks up at Zach again, pupils wide in the low light of the room. 

“You gave that to me,” he says. 

Zach’s mouth has gone dry. “I...I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean--”

“No,” Chris says. “I love it.” 

“Chris--” 

_“No,”_ Chris says. “You don’t get it. I’ve been jerking off to this since you did it. You know what I do?” 

“What do you do?” Zach is still touching Chris’s bruise. He thinks it feels warmer than the rest of him, but maybe it’s just his imagination. His heart is pounding. He has the vague sense that he should get out of here, but he can’t think clearly enough to even begin to make that happen. 

Chris takes hold of Zach’s hand again, splaying his fingers out over the bruise and pushing down on Zach’s palm with his own. Zach gets the idea then, pressing his own fingers into Chris’s tender skin. 

Chris gasps. “That,” he says. “I do that and I think about--about your face when you hit me.” 

“W-what do you mean?” 

“The way you look,” Chris says. “It’s like you go somewhere; you look so intense and you concentrate so hard. And then once it’s done you come back to me, you’re all...all nice, and you wanna buy me drinks and stuff. And I wondered. I wondered if you liked it too. And then the other day I kind of thought...but then today I _knew._ ” 

“We can’t,” Zach says, his throat tight. “Chris, it’s not...it’s not normal.” 

“What are you talking about? People do kinky stuff all the time.” 

“Yeah, but that’s like...spanking and riding crops and stuff. This isn’t just a little light S&M this is me beating you up. I got hard from making you _bleed._ ”

Chris bites his lip, his rhapsodic expression dulling slightly. The sight plucks at Zach; suddenly he wants nothing more than to bring that look back.

“Well, yeah,” Chris says. “It is. But people do it, right? People do everything. And it’s not like I’m not consenting.” He sighs. “Tell me you don’t like it,” he says, his tone bright and confident, the tone Chris uses when they’re debating something. He sounds like a kid trying to convince his parents to buy him a puppy. “Tell me you didn’t get hard when you hit me the other day. Tell me you haven’t been going home horny as hell every time we do this, thinking about--” 

“Fine!” Zach says. “You’re right, okay? It’s...I’ve never felt like this before. It’s freaking me out. And it’s happening with you, and _why_ is it happening with you? Why do I want to beat the crap out of somebody I--” Zach bites down hard on that last word, but it’s too little, too late. Chris stares at him, agog, for what feels like forever. Then he leans in and grabs a fistful of Zach’s sodden t-shirt. 

“Kiss me,” Chris says. 

“But your mouth,” Zach whispers. 

“I want you to.” 

Zach makes a pained noise, but he kisses Chris anyway, drawn forward by some inexorable force. Chris’s mouth tastes of salt and iron, sweat and blood, and Zach finds himself unable to resist probing with his tongue, looking for the place Chris’s teeth tore at the soft, slick flesh inside his mouth, Zach’s fist the catalyst. He finds it, running his tongue over it as if he could draw it into his mouth to suck. Chris moans, tensing at the pain and then melting against Zach’s body. Zach can feel him hard against his hip. 

“Come on,” he says, backing Chris into one of the bathroom stalls and locking the door behind them. “Sit,” Zach says, and when Chris is sitting on the toilet seat Zach straddles his lap and wastes no time sliding Chris’s dick out carefully, yanking his own shorts halfway down his thighs to jerk them both together. With his free hand he clutches at Chris’s bruise, pressing his fingers in one at a time like he’s playing some sort of grotesque instrument. Chris cries out and Zach hopes to god nobody can hear. He watches his white fingerprints flood purple again. 

“You like that?” Zach mutters against Chris’s neck. 

“Yeah,” Chris breathes shakily. 

“You want me to keep touching it while I jack you?” 

Chris nods and Zach prods the bruise cruelly. Chris tosses his head back and writhes, thrusting up into Zach’s hand and whining. The sight is so arresting that Zach lets go of his own dick entirely; it’s enough just to watch Chris move like this, to listen to the sounds he’s making. Zach’s half-afraid that his own pleasure will distract him. 

“Talk to me,” Chris says. “Please, I want to hear you.” 

“Okay,” Zach says. “You...you look so good like this, Chris, so beautiful. You’re all colorful for me, and your mouth...” 

“Oh _god_ ,” Chris moans. 

“Your mouth’s getting all puffy; I want to kiss it like that, I want to see you suck my dick like that--” 

Chris cries out then, coming in pulses over Zach’s hand. “Fuck!” 

Zach grips the hair on the back of Chris’s head, holding him in place and kissing him again, softly and sweetly this time, figuring maybe the allure of pain has decreased with Chris’s orgasm. But Chris wraps a hand around Zach’s neck then, crushing their mouths together, and that’s what makes Zach come, long and drawn out and gasping into Chris’s mouth. 

“Oh my god,” Zach says, dropping his head onto Chris’s shoulder. “What the fuck.” 

Chris starts giggling.

“You’re an asshole,” Zach says. “I might be a sociopath and you’re sitting there laughing at me.” 

“I’m not laughing at you. And you’re not a sociopath. You...you love me.” It’s not a question. 

Zach swallows. “Yeah.” 

“Maybe that’s why you want to hurt me. I think that’s why I want you to. Because I love you.” Chris’s voice is so soft, so calm. Zach thinks that if Chris keeps talking like that, maybe this will end up okay and without somebody in jail for assault. 

“We should clean up,” Zach says. “And we should fix your face. If Josh sees you like this he’s going to ban us from the gym.” 

Chris kisses Zach again, running his thumb over the place where he landed his own punch. There’s a bruise forming there, too. “I keep thinking about doing it without the gloves,” Chris says. 

They get cleaned up and sneak Chris out to the parking lot without incident. Zach insists on following Chris to a drugstore to pick up first aid supplies, because Chris can’t remember what he has at home. Zach hands him the white plastic bag in the parking lot and shoves his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says. 

“So.” Chris is biting his lip again. “You want to come over?” 

Zach has never wanted anything more. 

As soon as they get to Chris’s, Zach herds him into the bathroom and makes him sit on the toilet while Zach goes through his first aid repertoire. “Arnica’s good for bruising,” he says. “My grandma always had it around.” He rubs a glob of gel over Chris’s side with careful fingers. 

“It’s cold,” Chris says. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He makes Chris gargle with hydrogen peroxide and treats the cut on the outside of his lip with a cotton pad soaked in more of it. Chris squirms as the liquid bubbles. “Stings,” he says to Zach’s questioning look. 

“Oh, now you’re a wuss about pain.” 

“It’s not the same thing,” says Chris, voice garbled by the intruding gauze. 

After Zach is finished, Chris insists on trading places and putting arnica on Zach’s cheek. Zach lets his eyes close as Chris’s fingers dab in gentle circles. “There we go,” Chris says when he’s done, pressing a slightly hesitant kiss to the corner of Zach’s mouth. 

“This is so weird,” Zach says. 

“Bad weird?” 

“Just weird. I just...I never thought about you like this. Or, I did, I just...tried to never let myself think about it, you know?” 

Chris takes Zach’s hand. “Well, I wasn’t exactly forthcoming, so.” He snorts. “Figures it’d take us literally beating the crap out of each other to come to this realization.” 

Zach smiles. “Seems pretty apropos, to be honest with you.” 

He still feels off-kilter, blue, but Chris is here and that’s got to count for something. They end up on the couch, ordering pizza and watching bad TV, and it could be any night when they’re together back in LA, except for the fact that Chris keeps poking at his cut lip with his tongue when he thinks Zach isn’t looking. Zach is looking, because he can’t stop looking at Chris tonight, so he elbows him, and then they stare at each other like moony assholes until they’ve completely lost track of whatever the fuck they’re allegedly watching. Eventually they go to bed, too tired and gobsmacked to do anything but lie there and talk. 

“So what happens now?” Chris asks. “Do we quit training?” 

“Well, we were going to quit training anyway,” Zach says. “When shooting started. So we could just quit early, unless you feel like going to sessions with Josh knowing that I want to do terrible things to you on the gym floor.” 

“After you beat me up.” 

Zach sighs up at the ceiling. “After I beat you up. So, I guess additional terrible things.” 

“Zach, it’s not terrible, okay?” 

Zach’s mental jury is still out on that, still working overtime trying to parse basic things like _Chris is into guys_ before moving onto _I am possibly a sadist._ “How are you so chill about all this? I’m the one who’s--” 

“What, all down with your dualistic Gemini halves or whatever? I don’t know, maybe you never bothered to think about darkness in such literal terms.” He takes a deep breath. “Or maybe there’s no deep-seated psychology behind any of this, and people just like what they like. That’s always been how I’ve operated, anyway.” 

“Must be nice,” Zach says before he can stop himself. “Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.” 

“It’s okay,” Chris says, even though it’s not. “Maybe we should just go to sleep and think about the rest tomorrow.” 

Zach’s eyelids are droopy, so he can’t find a lot of fault with Chris’s suggestion. Chris rolls over on his side and Zach slides up against him, draping an arm across his waist with only the most minimal sense of impending freakout. “I want to do it again, though,” he murmurs, just before he falls asleep. Chris reaches up and squeezes his hand. 

They take a break from the gym after what they’ve facetiously termed “the incident,” getting their workout fix from their old running dates and also lots of fucking. Vanilla fucking, because Zach’s still a little freaked out about the whole sadism thing and, despite Chris’s zen state Zach privately thinks he’s pretty shellshocked himself. Plus, as Zach points out, sparring again before Chris’s mouth and side are healed is just stupid. 

“I can’t believe you kept going to workouts with Josh with that massive bruise,” he says one morning over breakfast. “Wasn’t your side killing you?” 

Chris glowers into his coffee, but Zach’s not budging. If he’s going to be a dom or whatever he’s going to be damn good at it, just like he is at everything he cares to devote time and energy to, especially if Chris’s well-being is at stake. 

“So I’ve been doing some thinking,” he says. “You might not like it.” 

“Okay,” Chris says cautiously.

“I’m not going to hit you when we’re shooting,” Zach says. “I’m not. It’s just stupid, and if makeup has to cover bruises or whatever you know what everyone’s going to think. And if we’re, like, together and it gets out--” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t handle people thinking I’d do that to you.” 

Chris’s slightly petulant expression dissolves into a smile. “Wait, what do you mean ‘together’?” 

Zach sighs exasperatedly. “Chris, focus!” 

“I am focusing! You want to be together? Like together-together?” 

Zach’s face feels hot, which is usually Chris’s jurisdiction. He takes a deflecting sip of coffee. “I don’t know,” he says quickly. “I mean, I just thought--do you?” 

Chris is grinning into his own coffee up. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” 

“I need a drink,” Zach says, letting his head fall into his hands. “Am I too young to have a heart attack? I think I’m having palpitations.” He has these moments lately, at semi-regular intervals. It’s disconcerting, because he thought that at this point in life he had most things figured out. But here he is pushing forty and apparently having the kinds of moments of discovery about himself and his sexuality that are usually reserved for stoned college students. And he’s in love, which he usually sees coming but which in this case has hit him like the proverbial anvil out of the blue. 

“Zachary. Chill, will you? It’s us. What has it been like the last few days?” Chris rests his hand at the nape of Zach’s neck, rubbing his thumb in circles. 

He sounds parental again, reassuring, asking leading questions. But he’s got that comforting thing going on again, so Zach does his best to let calm wash over him. 

“It’s been good,” Zach says.

“It’s going to keep being good,” Chris says. “It’s cool, right? I think it’s cool we found this out together; think of all the stuff we get to play around with. And it’s perfect, it’s like...you like the cake and I like the icing, or something.” 

Zach snorts. “Nice metaphor, Pine.” 

“It’s a simile, asshole.” 

Zach rolls his eyes, is still rolling them until he kisses Chris and they close of their own volition. “Two peas in a pod, that’s us,” he says when they pull apart. 

“Two kinky peas in a...sex pod?” 

Zach wrinkles his nose. “Okay, no. Now be quiet and let me tell you the rest of what I’ve been thinking.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hmm,” Zach says. “I could get used to that from you, I think. But anyway. I know how this all got started, but the more I think about it, the more I think we can’t keep doing it. We could keep boxing with all the gear on--” 

“But that’s not--” 

Zach holds up a hand. “We could keep doing that, and keep it legit, and then do other stuff too. Safer stuff.” 

“Like sex stuff?” 

“Like sex stuff.” 

Chris bites his lip. “But what if it’s not as good?” 

“Well, it’s not going to be good at all if I break your nose, or your jaw, or my fingers,” Zach says. “It was stupid, doing it without all the protective gear when we’d never even talked about it. I could’ve really hurt you, and honestly, it was kind of fucked up, Chris. You goaded me into doing it, and yeah, it ended up fine, but what if it hadn’t?” 

Chris is quiet for a long time, looking off over Zach’s shoulder into the corner of the kitchen. “You’re right,” he says finally. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Zach says. “I feel like there’s a learning curve, you know? We won’t be stupid next time.” _I won’t let it happen,_ he thinks. 

“So if we can’t do _that_ , what can we do? Whips and chains and all that?” Chris sounds skeptical. 

Zach smirks. “I’ve been doing some research,” he says. “And I’ve got some ideas.” 

They do it a couple nights later, as soon as Chris convinces Zach that his bruise is faded enough. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore,” he says, poking at it. 

Zach smacks his hand away gently. “I believe you,” he says. 

“So do you have everything you need for tonight?” 

Chris has practically been bouncing all day, a ball of nervous energy. It makes Zach want to laugh, but it’s also just the tiniest bit annoying. When he can’t stand it anymore, he sends Chris out on a run. 

“Not too far,” he says. “I don’t want you to get too tired. While you’re gone I can set up for later.” 

“Ooh, setup,” Chris says, waggling his eyebrows. “Exciting!” 

Zach shakes his head. “You’re too much, Pine.” He kisses Chris on the cheek. “Out,” he says. He watches Chris go with a smile on his face, shaking his head again. Then he turns his attention to the bedroom.

***

Zach lets his research guide the rest of their evening. Dinner is light, chicken and vegetables and this fancy grain blend that Chris makes fun of, despite the fact that Zach knows he practically lived on the stuff during his last cleanse.

“Can we eat something unhealthy tomorrow?” Chris asks, poking at his broccoli. 

“We can eat whatever you want tomorrow,” Zach says primly. “Tonight, your dietary choices are up to me. In fact,” he adds, “I’d say pretty much everything is up to me.”  
“Hmm,” Chris says, screwing up his mouth as if in consideration. “Getting into character?” 

“Trying it on for size.” Zach’s not really sure how much he wants to boss Chris around, although the prospect certainly has its appeal. Although if he’s honest he’d rather use that ability to dictate things like beard length and the wearing of Crocs in public. He’s sensitive to the greater good, after all. Besides, he’s not sure Chris is going to need a whole lot of bossing, considering his enthusiasm about playing again. 

_Play._ That’s what all the websites call it, and Zach’s visited a lot in the last few days. Framing it that way helps him, as does the memory of Chris’s ecstatic reactions that day at the gym. It’s brought them here, after all, together, and that can’t be bad, no matter how much latent guilt gets dredged up for Zach. Their relationship has always had a playful streak, and then there’s Chris himself, so steadfastly confident in what he wants that it’s contagious. 

They finish dinner and clean up in silence. It’s still pretty early; Zach didn’t want to be overtired by the time they got into things. “So,” he says when everything’s back in place. “You wanna go back to the bedroom?” 

Chris nods. 

The dogs are back in New York with a friend. He misses them, but tonight he’s glad they’re not here. The only thing Zach has to worry about right now is Chris, and he’s fine with that. 

The tenor of the evening changes as soon as they go into the bedroom and Zach closes the door. He can feel it as soon as it happens, and he thinks Chris can too. He drifts close to Zach, sitting next to him on the bed, pressing their shoulders together. “Kiss me,” he says, and it reminds Zach of the first time. He leans in, crooking a finger under Chris’s chin and kissing him gently on the mouth. 

“Are you excited?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” says Chris. “Are you?” 

Zach nods. “We should...we should talk about it. About what to do if one of us wants to stop.”

“Red light, stop? That’s easy.” 

Zach shrugs. “Works for me.” He laughs nervously. This part feels strange, negotiation and navigation. It was easier before, just getting in front of each other with the gloves on. Speaking of--

“Ready to get started?”  
“Sure,” Chris says. 

“Okay,” says Zach. “Get undressed.” 

Chris makes a face Zach recognizes, the one he makes when he’s trying not to grin like an idiot. It’s totally endearing, and it makes Zach’s heart pound all the faster in his chest. 

“All the way?” Chris asks. 

Zach shakes his head no. “Just down to your boxers for now.” 

For his part, he strips his shirt off, opting to leave his jeans on. He’s barefoot, and as he paces a little circle at the foot of the bed he thinks about what it would be like to do what Chris really wanted, to go at it just like this, to fight like this. The room is warm, but he’s got goosebumps. 

“Sit,” Zach tells Chris. He’s got a bunch of what he’s come to think of as his equipment lined up on the nightstand; he keeps catching Chris looking at it out of the corner of his eye. Now, he takes up a roll of tape like the kind they use at the gym. He tosses it next to Chris on the bed, then holds out his hands, palms down. 

“What--” 

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Get me ready.” 

Chris draws in a breath, freezing for just a second. Then he springs into action, picking the tape up and beginning to wrap Zach’s hands. A hush falls over the room as he works. Zach watches Chris’s deft fingers, the tendons and veins in his hands, smooth and golden against Zach’s. His hands really are big, Zach thinks as Chris holds one of Zach’s hands in both of his, checking his handiwork. It feels important to do this somehow, a way to bridge the gap between what they blundered into in the gym and what they’re doing now. 

“Not too tight?” he asks when he’s done both. 

Zach flexes his fingers. His mouth feels dry. “No.” 

Chris looks around. “Where are your gloves?” 

Zach holds up his hands, miming a boxing stance. “Gloves off, baby,” he says, grinning. 

“But I thought--” 

“Shh,” Zach says. “You’ll see.” He steps toward Chris and runs his fingers lightly over his face, his lips. “You looked so good with a bloody mouth,” he says, feeling a little wistful. “We’ll have to do that again sometime.” 

“On a special occasion,” Chris says. 

Zach traces his knuckles along Chris’s abs, his side, the place where the bruise is barely visible. “I’m going to miss it when it’s all gone,” he murmurs. He slaps Chris there, palm open, and Chris gasps, jerking back a little.

“Hmm,” Zach says as if to himself. Then he does it again in the same place, watching as Chris’s skin pinks up under his touch. “That looks almost as good,” he says. “Pink instead of purple. What do you think?” 

Chris nods hurriedly, and Zach looks down to where his hands hang at his sides, balled loosely into fists. “That make you want to hit me back?” Zach asks. 

“A little bit,” says Chris tightly. 

“Good,” Zach says. “I...I think I like that. I liked to look at your face before, too. You always tried so hard, didn’t you, Chris? But it wasn’t ever enough.” 

“I don’t know,” Chris says. “I got you good a couple times.” Zach watches his adams-apple bob in his throat. 

“That’s true,” Zach says. “You did. I’ve got to give credit where it’s due. But for now,” he says, “I think you should put your hands behind your back.” 

Chris’s eyes dart from Zach’s face to Zach’s own hands and back. He licks his lips. “You wanna tie me up?” he asks, like his tone is going for light and not quite making it there. 

“No. I want you to just keep them there,” Zach says. “Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

Impulsively, Zach slaps the pink splotch on Zach’s side once more. It feels warm, more alive than the rest of him, and while the impact isn’t quite as intense as a punch Zach can still feel a buzzy thrill singing up the nerves in his fingers. It makes him feel like he’s electric, like he and Chris can pass pain back and forth like a current between them. Chris sucks in a breath and Zach can see the muscles of his belly tighten up involuntarily. 

“I like to watch you do that,” he says. “It’s nice to be up so close; I can see what it looks like when you hurt, what you do with your body.” 

“Zach,” Chris whispers. 

“What?” 

_“More.”_

The word goes straight to Zach’s dick. Chris’s face and chest are flushed a dark pink, and it looks like he’s starting to sweat a little just from this. Zach’s gaze drifts up from Chris’s side to his chest, his nipples hardened to points. _Play,_ Zach thinks. _Is that what I’m doing?_ He reaches out and slaps Chris right over his left nipple, once and then again a second time. 

“Fuck!” Chris says. 

Zach’s watching Chris’s face. His mouth has fallen open wider, slack. Zach wants to put his fingers inside it. “You like that? How does it feel?” 

“Yeah,” Chris says, his voice rough. “I like it. It--it stings.” 

Zach does it again on the other side, then again, alternating sharp little blows against either side of Chris’s chest. Before long he’s arching his back for it, swaying forward into Zach’s touch on the balls of his feet, though he dutifully keeps his hands clasped at the small of his back. 

Chris’s mouth falls open and his eyes go heavy-lidded, and the look on his face reminds Zach of the way he’d looked in the locker room, fingering the bruise. Zach runs his hand over Chris’s chest, enjoying the feel of the warm skin. Then without warning, he hauls off and punches Chris in the chest, right in the meat of his right pectoral. He’s clearly not expecting it, and the impact knocks a huff of breath out of him. He’s thrown back a little, losing his balance, and his arms shoot up in counterpoint. 

“Whoa, what the fuck?” he cries.

Zach doesn’t answer. He just punches Chris again in the same spot. It’s not as hard as he’d have hit with gloves on, for sure, and he has to pay more attention to placement. But damn, Chris was right about doing it without the gloves. The brief kiss of warmth as he comes into contact with Chris’s skin, the way the impact runs up his arm so that he can feel it in his whole body. He hits Chris on the chest again and his head snaps up; he grits his teeth and looks Zach right in the eye, grunting as Zach lands yet another punch. 

On the next one Chris’s arm shoots out, and he catches Zach around the wrist.The resistance feels like a brick wall, and Zach realizes as if for the first time just how bulked up Chris has gotten. He’s a little soft over the top of it all, the way he always gets for Kirk, but there’s a very real hard core there, and every pound of it is holding Zach at bay now, Chris’s arm trembling with the effort. Zach slams into him with the opposite shoulder and when he makes contact he keeps moving, driving Chris all the way back against the wall. He’s definitely sweating now, they both are, and Zach can almost smell it, salty like blood. He pins Chris against the wall with his forearm. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asks. 

Without waiting for an answer he leans in and bites at Chris’s lower lip, and it’s all he can do not to bite until he tastes iron. Chris cries out, wriggling under Zach like he’s trying to get away, but Zach holds him there, licking at his cheek like a cat, wanting to lick up the sweat there. He brings his hand back, quick like a piston, and hits Chris again.

“Oh,” Chris gasps out, a sob of breath. Zach moves the pinning arm aside and shoves Chris against the wall with his whole body, grinding his pelvis against Chris’s painfully. 

“Yeah,” Zach says. “You’re fucking hard for it, aren’t you? You want me to fuck you?” 

Chris licks his lips, slowly, and Zach could swear he’s doing it on purpose. He blinks like he’s trying hard to focus. Chris nods. “But,” he says. His voice is low and pleading. He reaches down and grabs Zach’s hand, molds it into a fist and clutches. “Can’t you? Please?” 

His tone cuts straight through to Zach’s heart, and Zach wants it. He wants it so badly he can taste it. He wants to throw caution to the winds and kiss Chris’s mouth wet and red with his fist. But...but he won’t. He can’t. He promised. And he had reasons, good reasons. He’s sure of it, even if he can’t quite remember them now. Just as surely as he wants to punch Chris in the face, he knows that if he does something will break forever, something Zach’s only just realized he had in the first place. 

He raises his hand to Chris’s cheek, rubbing his thumb over his fat lower lip. “Baby,” he whispers. Then he slaps Chris hard across the cheek. 

Chris gasps, the sound turning wet and thick and throaty like a hiccup. His cheek blanches and then reddens. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. He tries one more time. “Again,” he says. 

Zach moans. He grabs at Chris’s shoulder with his other hand; he thinks he might come just from that, just from the flat of his palm against the ridge of Chris’s clavicle. He feels like time is slowing down, like space itself is bending somehow, and when he moves to slap Chris again it feels like his hand is moving through syrup, though the white-hot sting in his fingers and the recoil of Chris’s head begs to differ. 

Tears spill out of Chris’s eyes; Zach tracks them down the center of his rosy handprint and he leans in to lick again. Chris turns his head and finds Zach’s mouth with his own, running his hands through Zach’s hair, dropping one to the small of his back and pulling him in so they’re pressed together head to toe. 

“I’m going to take you to bed now,” Zach says. 

Chris just nods, apparently beyond words. He’s shaky on his feet as Zach helps him to the bed, easing him down onto the mattress and getting up to hit the lights so that only the bedside lamp remains, bathing the room in warm light. He pulls his jeans off as quickly as he can. On the bed, Chris is lifting his hips to drag his boxers off. He’s so hard, and the sight makes Zach’s mouth water. He reaches down and cups his own dick, squeezing. He’s so close already; his balls feel heavy and achy with it. As he reaches for the bedside table, for his lube and condom, he feels like he’s moving through a dream. 

Chris is loose-limbed and sprawling and Zach wants to be inside him already. He drapes himself over Chris’s body, tangling his hand in Chris’s hair and holding his head still, kissing him deeply. He’s got fingerfuls of lube in his other hand and he reaches back between Chris’s legs to press his fingers against his hole. He’s relaxed and Zach opens him up as slowly and carefully as he can manage. He runs the back of his other hand over Chris’s cheek, pink and perfect. He says Chris’s name over and over. Chris smiles up at him and closes his eyes. “Please,” he says. 

Zach nods, even though Chris isn’t looking. He slides his fingers out and leans on his elbow to fumble with the condom and line himself up, and then he sinks into Chris with a long, drawn out moan. 

If he felt dreamy before, sex feels like floating. He feels almost as if this is all secondary, like tonight’s real climax came up against the wall earlier. They drift together on the bed, cheek to cheek, Zach muttering things to Chris he’ll blush about in the morning, telling him how good he is, how lucky Zach is. Abruptly, Chris is arching up against him and shooting warm and sticky between their bodies, and the feeling is enough to push Zach over the edge too. 

“Ahhh,” he gasps, pressing his open mouth to Chris’s chest and breathing against his skin, leaving a moist oval behind, dragging his lips over it in a lazy kind of kiss. Chris’s chest heaves at first, and Zach lies there until it slows and stops, mouthing at him intermittently. Chris moves his hand like a blind man, feeling for Zach, and when he finds him he interlaces their fingers and brings Zach’s hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. Zach is softening, and he shifts his weight to the side enough to slide out and get the condom off, tie off the open end and pitch it in the general direction of the bathroom. 

“That’s gross,” Chris says, his voice hoarse. He hasn’t spoken in what feels like a really long time, and the fact that _these_ are his first words is somehow hilarious to Zach. He collapses in a fit of laughter, rolling off of Chris and burying his face in his folded arms. 

“Oh my god,” he says, turning his head to look at Chris again. 

Chris rolls onto his side with what looks like effort. He reaches for Zach a little hesitantly, skating the flat of his palm along Zach’s spine.  
“We did that,” Chris says. “Right? We did that?” 

“We did,” Zach says. “Was it--I mean, if it didn’t work for you--” 

Chris scoots closer, so close, close enough that they’re almost nose to nose. He runs his fingers through Zach’s hair, brushing it back from his face. His own hair is mussed and ridiculous and Zach loves it. He might cry when Chris has to cut it. He _really_ might cry when Chris shaves. 

“Are you kidding?” Chris says. “I haven’t come that hard in, like, ever. And before?” He shivers. “That was insane, man.”

“So you liked it.” 

“I loved it. Did--did you like it?” 

Zach smiles, nodding against the pillow, the motion of his head making little scuffing sounds. “Yeah,” he says. “It was...it was pretty great.” 

Chris drapes his arm over Zach’s waist, humming happily. Zach needs to get up, but he humors Chris for a few minutes, dozing next to him until he’s in real danger of falling asleep. “Hey,” he says. “I need to get some stuff.” 

“Huh?” 

“I want to look at your chest,” Zach says. “And your face. Okay?” He slides out of the bed and heads for the bathroom, stooping to pick up the discarded condom on the way. He tosses it into the trash can and runs the hot water; his sink’s a little temperamental and always takes a minute to warm up so he takes the opportunity to pee while he waits, wondering belatedly if he should have closed the door. Oh well. Chris has probably seen worse, and besides, Zach has heard rumors of an incident involving a bush that, if true, mean Chris doesn’t have a leg to stand on regarding anything ever again. 

When the water warms up, he washes his hands. Then he soaks a washcloth and wrings it out, opening the medicine cabinet and selecting some of the supplies they bought at the drugstore the other day. He goes back out into the bedroom to find Chris practically snoring, but when he sits down on the bed the dip of the mattress rouses him. 

“You’re back,” he says. 

“I am,” Zach says. “And I come bearing gifts. Well, sort of. Sit up, will you?” 

Chris grumbles, but he complies. Zach leans over him and tilts the lampshade up, casting Chris’s chest in clearer light. The redness has faded slightly, but Zach thinks he can see the beginnings of at least a couple of bruises. He runs the cloth over the blooming marks, feeling strangely proud. 

“That feels good,” Chris says. “Thanks.” 

Zach leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “Of course,” he says. “You let me do all that; it’s the least I can do.” 

“Yeah, like it was such a hardship,” Chris says. 

“You want some of the arnica?” 

Chris sighs. “Do I have to?” 

Zach screws up his nose. “Well,” he says, tapping a finger against his lip in deliberation. “We...we kind of compromised earlier. Kept it tame.” 

“Tame _ish_.” 

“Right. So I think...you should let me do your face, just in case. But I think _maybe_ \--” He draws out the “maybe,” splaying his palm over the spot that’s the most likely candidate for bruising. He presses against it, and Chris shudders automatically. Zach grins. “Yeah, we can keep these around.”


End file.
